The Wife.
It's been a week since she had last shampooed her hair. Her eyebrows need to be threaded and it was more than two years ago that she had last visited the parlor for a bikini-wax. But these are last on her mind as she goes about checking the doors and windows for the night and making sure that all the lights are turned off. Soaking some Rajma for breakfast, she makes a mental note as to what she would prepare her two kids for lunch. She heads for her bedroom and along her way she gives one last look at the kids' bedroom and adjusts the timer on the AC. Her husband is already in the bed watching football on the TV. She stops short in her steps to ask him if they are going for the movie the next day, like they usually do on Saturdays, but decided against it as he was much too engrossed in the game and barely noticed her enter the room. She heads straight to the bathroom instead and looks at herself in the mirror. Two pregnancies had taken their toll on her body. She removes her bun and lets her hair fall loose but thinks she looks disastrous with all that greasy hair. She had been looking forward to this Saturday, like all other Saturdays before this when her husband customarily takes the family out for dinner. And it is on these days that she does essentially take care of how she looks, of what she's become, after 5 years of being a house-wife. She hurriedly pulls a rubber-band on her hair, without caring to brush it, and heads back into the bedroom and gets into the bed, alongside her husband. She gives me one last look, smirks, asks me to sleep early and dozes off. I discern fine crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes as she smiled, her hands have the faint smell of ginger-garlic from the kitchen, her body isn't toned anymore and there are strands of gray in her once beautiful thick black hair. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Friday kind of way...
The Friend.
She's been drinking all night. Actually since the evening. In all probability a routine for the last two days. Break-ups are thorny situations. She gets up and stumbles her way to the fridge to fetch another bottle of wine. She comes back, lights a cigarette, takes a long drag at it and declares that she had his baby aborted, twice and that she feels repulsed having trusted this swine of a man who turned out to be a cheater. She also states that she had rebound sex with a common friend she met at the club the previous night and this had only made her feel worse. She hates what she's becoming. And all she wants right now is to go back home and cut off from the rest of the world. She's in a wreck. She pulls her friend at his collar and asks him what she's done to deserve this. Asking her to calm down he gives her a tight hug and then she breaks down, crying, for the first time. I hold on to her till she falls asleep and then gently lay her down on the couch and cover her with my shawl. Her perfume has been subdued by the stench of alcohol. Her kohl has smudged around her puffy eyes and her hair is messed in knots. The stockings she wore is torn at places, probably when she stumbled. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Saturday kind of way...
The Girl-friend.
It's 10 am and she's just gotten up from bed, an hour after actually waking up from sleep and browsing on her mobile phone until its battery went dry. It is four hours later than she routinely does on weekdays. But today, she's in no hurry. Not in a hurry to even brush her teeth. Tying her hair in a loose pony-tail she heads to the balcony, ritually pushing the windows ajar and tucking the curtains at the sides of the window pane along her way. She lets the sun soak in and warm her body. It is a good feeling even though she can hardly keep her eyes open against the sudden brightness. She gives in and stands there resting her back against the railing with her eyes shut. After a while she turns around to face the sun, slowly running her hand over her chest to let the now-warm bobbled and over-sized sweatshirt pass on the warmth to her bra-less chest. Through the corner of her eye she squints at her nails. The nail-paint is chipping at places and needs a re-application. Meanwhile, she also tests her nails by pressing them against her thumb and concludes that she has very weak nails. She lifts her slightly bent head, tucks the loose hair locks from in front of her face to behind her ears and looks at me. Her hair is luster-less, the skin on her face and her lips are dry, she does not smell of any fragrance and her loose clothes do not flatter her body. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Sunday kind of way...
It's been a week since she had last shampooed her hair. Her eyebrows need to be threaded and it was more than two years ago that she had last visited the parlor for a bikini-wax. But these are last on her mind as she goes about checking the doors and windows for the night and making sure that all the lights are turned off. Soaking some Rajma for breakfast, she makes a mental note as to what she would prepare her two kids for lunch. She heads for her bedroom and along her way she gives one last look at the kids' bedroom and adjusts the timer on the AC. Her husband is already in the bed watching football on the TV. She stops short in her steps to ask him if they are going for the movie the next day, like they usually do on Saturdays, but decided against it as he was much too engrossed in the game and barely noticed her enter the room. She heads straight to the bathroom instead and looks at herself in the mirror. Two pregnancies had taken their toll on her body. She removes her bun and lets her hair fall loose but thinks she looks disastrous with all that greasy hair. She had been looking forward to this Saturday, like all other Saturdays before this when her husband customarily takes the family out for dinner. And it is on these days that she does essentially take care of how she looks, of what she's become, after 5 years of being a house-wife. She hurriedly pulls a rubber-band on her hair, without caring to brush it, and heads back into the bedroom and gets into the bed, alongside her husband. She gives me one last look, smirks, asks me to sleep early and dozes off. I discern fine crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes as she smiled, her hands have the faint smell of ginger-garlic from the kitchen, her body isn't toned anymore and there are strands of gray in her once beautiful thick black hair. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Friday kind of way...
The Friend.
She's been drinking all night. Actually since the evening. In all probability a routine for the last two days. Break-ups are thorny situations. She gets up and stumbles her way to the fridge to fetch another bottle of wine. She comes back, lights a cigarette, takes a long drag at it and declares that she had his baby aborted, twice and that she feels repulsed having trusted this swine of a man who turned out to be a cheater. She also states that she had rebound sex with a common friend she met at the club the previous night and this had only made her feel worse. She hates what she's becoming. And all she wants right now is to go back home and cut off from the rest of the world. She's in a wreck. She pulls her friend at his collar and asks him what she's done to deserve this. Asking her to calm down he gives her a tight hug and then she breaks down, crying, for the first time. I hold on to her till she falls asleep and then gently lay her down on the couch and cover her with my shawl. Her perfume has been subdued by the stench of alcohol. Her kohl has smudged around her puffy eyes and her hair is messed in knots. The stockings she wore is torn at places, probably when she stumbled. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Saturday kind of way...
The Girl-friend.
It's 10 am and she's just gotten up from bed, an hour after actually waking up from sleep and browsing on her mobile phone until its battery went dry. It is four hours later than she routinely does on weekdays. But today, she's in no hurry. Not in a hurry to even brush her teeth. Tying her hair in a loose pony-tail she heads to the balcony, ritually pushing the windows ajar and tucking the curtains at the sides of the window pane along her way. She lets the sun soak in and warm her body. It is a good feeling even though she can hardly keep her eyes open against the sudden brightness. She gives in and stands there resting her back against the railing with her eyes shut. After a while she turns around to face the sun, slowly running her hand over her chest to let the now-warm bobbled and over-sized sweatshirt pass on the warmth to her bra-less chest. Through the corner of her eye she squints at her nails. The nail-paint is chipping at places and needs a re-application. Meanwhile, she also tests her nails by pressing them against her thumb and concludes that she has very weak nails. She lifts her slightly bent head, tucks the loose hair locks from in front of her face to behind her ears and looks at me. Her hair is luster-less, the skin on her face and her lips are dry, she does not smell of any fragrance and her loose clothes do not flatter her body. She does not feel beautiful. But she is... She is beautiful, the Sunday kind of way...
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